Of Moustaches and Magical Dice
by highertaxes
Summary: They should have known that playing the old Dragonlance campaign setting could only lead to problems. But being trapped in the bodies of the Companions is even worse, or is it? Cliche's abound! Prologue added.
1. Prologue

**Of Moustaches and Magical Dice  
Prologue**

The air that came out of the deep well was icy cold and foul smelling when the kender peered over the edge. He recoiled in disgust, pressing his sleeve against his mouth and shook his head.

"Nothing?" the half-elf asked and ventured some steps forward to look into the darkness that lay below. It was not that he did not trust the kender's sharp eyes but he had to see for himself to soothe his growing agitation. He kicked a small rock into the well that was more of a hole in the ground than a real well. They listened to the noise the stone made until it faded.

"I can't see anything. Appears empty to me. Aside from the smell, that is," the kender rubbed his nose and stepped away, a bit disappointed.

"This doesn't seem right." A knight, clad in an old fashioned Solamnic armor, stepped forward, his fingers twirling around his moustache. He looked doubtful.

"Well, if you don't trust me, see for yourself," the kender made an inviting gesture towards the well.

"I'd rather not. The mage might push me in."

"Oh please," a figure, hiding in the shadows of great pillars, snorted.

"Never mind him. Get away from there, er, Tas!" the bearded half-elf ordered. Since they had reached this place, he had had an uneasy feeling. At least the woods had been alive, but these abandoned ruins gave him the creeps though he could not for the life of him figure out why. He suspected it was the well. Besides, everything was too quiet. That was never a good sign.

The half-elf was distracted from his musings when four figures emerged from around the remaining walls of a building. He made quick way over ancient boulders, hoping they had found a clue in the relief carvings of where they were. Before he could utter his questions, however, one of the four spoke up. He was a tall man, taller than most, clad in leather and the skins of animals, marking him as a member of the plainsmen.

"Nuttin' of worth, 'm sorry, mate."

The half-elf frowned and looked down at the old dwarf, who shook is head in return. "I could not read the runes either."

"Blast!" Disappointment was written all over the half-elf's face and he began to pace, staring uneasily at the well. "Anything else? What about that building?" He pointed north to a single building. It was the only one which stood whole, its outer walls worn by time and weather.

The dwarf opened his mouth, but he was interrupted by a young woman, similar in looks to the barbarian. With her she carried a blue crystal staff.

"Hey, looks like the mage found something."

"I have a name, you know!"

"I hope it's something good. The last time he waved us over was because he couldn't get into his robes properly," the last of the four murmured grumpily. He was a strong, handsome man in his early twenties and despite his young age a well seasoned warrior.

Together they went over to where the mage was perched in front of a tremendous obelisk, which lay beside its broken pedestal base. In his hand he held a plain book. As the others arrived, he looked up from his notes.

"What is it now?"

"No reason to be so snotty, dear cousin," the mage said, offended, and got up. He dusted off his red robes and stretched his limbs after squatting so long in front of the obelisk. Ignoring the dark looks, he answered the question.

"It was like fucking awesome, I cast a-"

"Yes, yes, get on with it. What did you find?"

"Oh you,…very well then. It seems we're in Xak Tsaroth," he stumbled over the name, over pronouncing several syllables. "I am not sure if the translation is correct, but either way, I am quite sure I got it."

"What exactly does it say?" the young woman asked, leaning forward, golden hair falling into her face.

"Er… 'The Great City of Zzzahk T'sarnoth whose… botey? Ah, beauties-ur rounds-ju, speaks to the good of its people' and their… gen…jen… generous! …Deeds. The gods reward us in the graceofurhome.'"

Silence.

"What?"

He sighed. "'The Great City of-"

"No, you idiot! We didn't catch it the first time!"

The dwarf leaned close to the half-elf and whispered, "_He's_ our wizard?"

"Gimme that!" The barbarian snatched the book from the wizard's hands. "I…" He squinted, turning the book around, his head moving with it, "Where did you learn to write? Scratch that, _did_ you ever even learn to write? It looks like a spider crawled across the page and died!"

"You cannot possibly comprehend my brilliant intellect, my notes are prefect!"

The companions just stared at their spellcaster.

"You mean perfect?" the plainswoman suggested.

"Oh…yes. Exactly. Prrrrfect…like a cat."

"We're so screwed," the warrior moaned to himself. "Here, give me that. I can read his scrawl, I grew up with him."

"Ah, well then, here you go." The tall man handed him the book. He repeated the translation for the others, who gave a collective "aaah," in understanding.

"It's a start," the half-elf said with more enthusiasm than he felt. He turned around to see where the kender was. Perhaps the city was marked on one of her,…his many maps.

They found the kender in front of the well, tossing pebbles into its bottomless depth. The mage was the first one to reach him, for he could be very quick when he wanted to.

"Stop this foolishness," he hissed, grabbing the kender's wrist, "Have you not seen _Lord of the Rings_? Never, ever toss shit into wells and lakes. You never know what creatures' slumber you might disturb!"

"Don't be ridiculous." The kender rubbed his hurting wrist and the faint imprints of the mage's fingernails away, after the haggard man had finally released his grip.

"No, he has a point. Who knows what dwells down there," The warrior peered over the edge. He had not been here when they had first inspected the well. Together with the dwarf and the two barbarians he had explored the surrounding area as well as possible between all the boulders and broken pillars.

"Rats?" the young woman offered. She kept her distance from the stone edge. It was a very long drop…

"I can't see how rats would survive this horrible stench."

"Mutation," the mage nodded wisely.

"Like Master Splinter?"

"Not exactly what I meant, but sure." The conversation quickly declined into an argument about whether rats could survive the smell over radioactivity.

"Shut up, all of you! This is serious! You're gonna get us killed!" the half-elf yelled, interrupting. He took a breath to calm himself and tried to get the situation back into some semblance of order. "I suggest we should…Pam! I told you to stay away from there!"

"But I think I can hear something," the kender said defensively, dropping the stones he had been coveting.

They all fell quiet and listened. There was a low whistling they had not noticed before, a change of cold air coming out of the well. Taking a step away from it, the half-elf cast a worried look at the others. The whistling grew louder into a high shriek and they had to cover their ears.

"I have a bad feeling about this," the knight yelled over the noise.

There was a sudden rumbling, upsetting some of the lighter boulders and the mage fell to his knees as the ground began to shake violently. Clutching his Staff of Magius, he stared in horror as a black beast shot from the well, flapping its huge wings. The knight was pointing at it, screaming.

Then everything went pitch dark.

How did we get ourselves into this mess, again? he wondered briefly before the Solamnic's words finally reached his ears.

"Dude, it's a fucking dragon!"


	2. D&D: The Gathering

**Of Moustaches and Magical Dice  
D&D: The Gathering**

David had always thought highly of himself. Seeing his very person as an undiscovered hero in the epic tale that was his suburban life, he tried to spice it up with theatrics. Fancying himself like Aragorn, having spent the previous night watching the entire trilogy in one go, he thrust open the dining room doors with both hands and an air of importance. Arms raised above him he declared:

"I have lost the will to live!"

"Take your headphones off if you're going to talk to us," his father said in passing, giving David a casual glance. David took it as the welcome home it was supposed to be. Pressing the 'stop' button on his Discman and halting the bemoaning of Metallica, the sixteen-year-old made an obscene gesture at his father's retreating back anyways. It was what people expected of him to do. His mother, sitting at the table quilting, gave him a stern glare. He let his hand sink down.

"It's just the hormones, dear."

David started at his father's voice from the kitchen. He'd always suspected his father was a telepath, he _was_ bald, after all. He wondered, briefly, when his own power would come in. It really should have surfaced by now, so said the laws set by Stan Lee. It would be like his father, to hold something back. Just like that bicycle he had wanted when he was ten…

"David, don't forget you wanted to do the dishes tonight," his mother added, resuming her sewing.

"It's _Dahvid_," he snapped. He was no common peasant, like his peers at school.

"What?"

"You know, Daaaahvid."

"Since when?" she quirked an eyebrow at him. Why couldn't she have normal children?

"Well, you know, it's more…eloquent. More…_me_," he said, posing.

His mother sighed and went back to her work, assuring herself that this was just a phase he was in. Granted, she had been telling herself that for over five years now. It was no use. He would not even take his shoes off when entering the house anymore.

"Anyways, I'm off to the Batcave," he announced with a wave, quite proud of himself that he had successfully evaded the dishwashing issue.

He gathered his stuff as fast as he could, throwing his dice and sheets into the small beige pack as well as his players' handbook. However, his most treasured game piece, a pewter figurine he had painted himself, went into the breast pocket of his shirt. If anything happened to it, his heart would shatter into a million pieces and paint the sky with glittering stars, reminding him of what he had lost forever.

But then, he was just theatrical.

Slinging the pack onto his shoulder, he bounded down the stairs and out the door. As he shut the door behind him, he heard his father calling after him:

"Be back at eight! And don't forget the dishes!"

Damn it, so close… Well, it did not matter; he was never home on time anyway.

Pulling his bike out of its hiding place in the bushes by the garage, he hopped on and pedaled down the frighteningly suburban street.

The Batcave was really just the back of the local comic and games shop owned by a crazy old (thirty-seven was, after all, one step from a nursing home for a teenager) man with a Boston accent called Ben. They called him Obi-Wan. He had a soft spot for serious gamers, and when Clark, a friend of Dahvid's who worked for Kenobi, mentioned he was putting together a D&D group, he gave them free access to the back room. The room was not large and mainly used for storage, but there was a big table and a refrigerator. A Star Trek poster hung on one wall, Spock's benevolent Vulcan eyes gazing down upon them like a Geek god, blessing them with Logic. It was not much, but it was Home.

After ten minutes of tedious bicycling (ugh, exercise), Dahvid pulled up in front of the shop. Securing his bike, he waltzed in.

"General Kenobi!" he announced, his feet placed apart and one hand pointing at the condemned proprietor sitting behind the counter.

Ben glanced up from the comic he was reading and glared at the obnoxious youth. "Don't start, Dahv. They're in the back. And quit blocking the doorway."

"Aw no one's here." Dahvid quirked an eyebrow and, pitching his voice up, hissed, "nobody likes you! Fat little hobbit!"

The proprietor shook his head. Generally, Ben was a patient man who defied the thirty-and-above geek stereotype. However, Dahvid just happened to rub him the wrong way occasionally. He was not a bad kid, he was just annoying as hell. But Ben could handle it; he had faced much greater evils in his life, like munchkins. And Ferengi.

The other kids were not so bad. He did not really know their names (hell, they each seemed to have five of them or something) despite the fact they were in the shop all the time. The only one he really liked was the young lad who worked for him. What was his name again…? Kinda looked like Clark Kent… Clark! That was it. Clark Somethingsomething. He was very punctual (especially when it came to leaving), was good with the customers and knew gaming like the inside of his pants. It was to Clark and Clark alone he gave use of the back room, he was the only one who was trustworthy. Always the boyscout, just like Superman. If Clark was not with the group, then the back room stayed locked.

Leaving Ben to his comic, Dahvid entered the Batcave just in time to see Clark sneeze as he opened a box. It looked like it had been in some old lady's attic for centuries. 'FRAGILE' was stamped on the side in big bold letters, even though there was nothing but papers and slim booklets inside.

"Hey guys! Live long and prosper," Dahvid announced, raising his hand in the Vulcan sign.

Clark did not look up. "Wrong fandom, ignoramus."

"I wasn't talking to you!" Dahvid snapped, and finished greeting the Spock poster.

"You're late," Leslie, Dahvid's cousin, stated helping Clark empty the box. He was a handsome young man in his early twenties whom you would never expect to be a gamer at first glance. But after five minutes talking to the fellow one would quickly realize he was a loon. He was into the whole 'save the rainforest, don't hurt animals, eat salad' stuff. A noble goal in itself, but really annoying to listen to continuously with no end in sight. But the girls liked him anyway. It made Dahvid sick.

Dahvid was about to make an oh-so witty retort when he remembered he was above the common peasantry. Instead he seated himself in his usual place between Icis and the Eyebrow and gave them each complimentary nudges. The two girls returned the gesture with 'friendly' kicks.

The Eyebrow, also known as Lucy, turned to the young teen, Simon, on her left. "Can I switch seats with you?"

"Oh please, not the little farter!"

"Shut up Dahvid!" Simon's voice broke, Dahvid's name coming out as a squeak. Red-faced, the fourteen-year-old took Lucy's seat. The Eyebrow, named such because of her dark unibrow that was impossible to ignore, gave Simon a grateful smile, showing off her impressive braces.

A sharp cough tore through the room, and the group turned their attention to Clark, the Dungeon Master.

"Now that everyone is here," at this, Clark shot Dahvid a dark look, "we can get started. Just so you all know; Ray's dead now too."

"Aw dude, c'mon!" Raymond pouted, tossing down his character sheet with an annoyed huff.

"Yep, suffice to say, you've all managed to kill yourselves. This is an accomplishment never before seen," he said sarcastically, pushing up his thick-rimmed glasses. "In fact, I think we need to try a new strategy. This is the third time! If we want to be serious players we need to stop fooling around like this!"

"Chill mate," Kyle attempted to placate their local god, "maybe _you_ just take this too seriously. I mean, sometimes it seems you're out to get us."

"And whose fault is that? If you guys would pay attention, I wouldn't _have_ to smite you!" Clark slammed both hands palm down onto the table, leaning forward, glaring at each gamer in turn. Simon swore he could see a glint of red in his eyes.

"Who put Kryptonite in his granola?" Leslie muttered under his breath to Raymond, who sat beside him.

Clark quickly collected himself and sat back down. "Fortunately, Ben has loaned me an old gaming campaign that I think will help. That way I don't have to make up the adventures myself. It'll give us focus."

"What do you mean?" Icis asked with suspicion.

"I speak of…_storyline_."

A collective gasp was heard as the group leaned back in horror.

"You mean…direction? As in beginning, middle and end? As in…in..."

"Plot," Lucy nodded wisely.

"Nooo!" Dahvid, Raymond, Leslie, Icis, Kyle, and Simon all screamed.

"Thank you, Lucy, for not being a douchebag." Clark unfolded his DM screen and placed it before himself. "Now, where were we?"

"We haven't even started," Dahvid sighed.

"Right. Anyway, I was talking to Obi-wan about you guys, and he suggested we try some of his older gaming campaigns. You know, less confusion and new shit to deal with –his words- and a new setting. What do you guys think? Give it a try?"

"Yes!" Lucy practically begged. She was getting tired of the guys getting sidetracked with the barwenches and female NPCs.

"That's the spirit! What do the rest of you say?"

The remaining members looked at each other, shrugging. Kyle spoke up, forcing the Australian accent he had lost years ago.

"What's the campaign called?"

Clark reached into the box and held out a slim book. On the cover a serpentine black dragon spat forth a spray of green acid upon the shield of a fighter. A dwarf, a woman with a glowing staff, and an archer stood by to aide him. Above the painting, a fanciful title read:

_Dragonlance: Dragons of Despair_

No one has ever heard of it.

--

_We are back, and we forgot how to log in. Luckily, MacGuyver saved the day. We would like to say it gets better, but we might be lying. We will try- (There is no try, do, or do not) shut up Lence. Okay, nevermind._


End file.
